


Nothing Else Matters -John/Sherlock-

by ChestnutPatronus14



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - fandom, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Shwatsonlock, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChestnutPatronus14/pseuds/ChestnutPatronus14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is unacceptable for a man to be with another man, and that is the only thing keeping them apart. John's denial, his refusal. It breaks Sherlock, drives him to the edge of disaster. But he's not the only one suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing a fanfic for Sherlock/John. This fanfic is also posted on deviantart and fanfiction.net.
> 
> Warning: Rated M for violence and drug use.

_London, 1891_

"Don't marry her."

John Watson glanced up from his chair beside the fire to see Sherlock Holmes sitting on the window ledge, his dark intelligent eyes fixed on him. It was a look John knew all too well, Holmes was studying him, everything, his facial movements, looking, calculating how to act, how to respond.

John had only told Holmes that he was planning to marry Mary a day ago. Needless to say he did not take it well. "Holmes…"

"Don't marry her John. She doesn't need you…I do…" What was that in his voice? Something John had never heard before; Holmes was begging.

There was a look of what John could only describe to be pure desperation on his long time companion's face. "Sherlock…we've…I…I can't. It wouldn't be fair to her…"

The look changed for fraction of a second. Anger, betrayal.

Heartbreak.

"Do you think so little of me John? Do you think me to be a child who is losing a toy? John. You mean so much more to me than you ever will to her. She is like the rest. She does not want you near me. She thinks I am a no good drug addict. A sociopath who could simply kill you and no one would notice. I know the look that people give me when they see me with someone like you. Someone so…" He tilted his head, pausing. "Prominent. She'll take you. She'll keep you. And she'll never let you see me again. She thinks I'm bad for you. That I'm nothing good, that I'm not good for you. She truly thinks I am nothing."

"Sherlock you're-"

"Being ridiculous?" Holmes moved with cat like abilities, his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping John there, their faces inches apart. "Why are you so blind my dear doctor?" He whispered, his fingers moving to brush against John's cheek, staring into his eyes with such intensity that it made John shiver. "Why are you so blind that you don't see what is sitting right in front of you?" He inhaled, his entire body freezing the instant Sherlock's lips brushed against his own. "Why John? Why are you this blind…" The warmth of his fingers disappeared as Sherlock Holmes walked out of the sitting room and, judging by the sound of his footsteps, back up to his own room leaving John completely alone.

His fingers trembled as he brushed his lips, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Could Holmes be right? Could he just be blind? John shook his head, telling himself that the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong. He wasn't blind. He loved Mary, not Sherlock.

Then why did that heartbroken look on Sherlock's face haunt him?

* * *

John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 18 minutes, and 47 seconds.

Sherlock had not been sleeping. He had been frantic, paranoid. Had he acted rashly? John hated him obviously. He always did that. He always drove everyone away. Everyone except Nanny…

He shouldn't have kissed him. He shouldn't have confronted him. He hated emotions…why did he think that John would understand? Why did he think John would feel the same? No one liked him.

He wasn't even sure his own brother did.

John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 20 minutes, and 2 seconds.

Cases had been offered for him to solve and he had done so in record time just so he could return to Baker Street and wait. But wait for what? For John to return home and run into his arms? No the probability of that was slim, more than likely John would punch him in the jaw. Again.

He had messed up this time…

His eyes fell on the small black box that sat on the mantel of his fireplace. Inside was an escape, one that he would welcome greatly after what he had been dealing with for two days.

The loneliness was creeping in. Cool air sending shivers up his spine. Empty. The room was empty. No warmth from the fire. No knowledge that John Watson was just a room away. Nothing. No one. He was alone.

Sherlock inhaled, breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco that rose from his pipe. He had followed John after the doctor left, followed him right to Mary's place. At that moment, Sherlock had known that he had done the wrong thing.

He had lost him. For good.

Emotions were not worth shit. He hated them. They clouded his mind, his judgment. Of all the blasted thing that could happen to him, why did he have to fall head over heels in love with Doctor John Watson?

_Because he is everything that you need. He balances you out. He keeps you sane. He keeps you human._

Oh that damn little voice in his head reminding him of why exactly he needed John. He wondered what it would take to silence the little voice… Again, his eyes fell on the black box.

_He smiles and I smile. He is handsome, and kind. Smart, though not as smart as I. Logical sense is we'd be perfect together._

And there it was. It wasn't the little voice in his head; it was his own thoughts reminding him of everything. Sherlock forced his gaze away from the black box, reminding himself he had told John he would never touch it again.

_But he chose her over me. He doesn't really care. Otherwise he'd be here…_

Slowly, he rose from the chair and in three steps was standing in front of the fireplace, in front of the box. His fingers closed around it, the leather was comforting on his skin. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before he sat back down in his chair, leaving the box on the mantel.

" _Don't Sherlock, you've come this far without it. You don't need it."_ John's words sounded clear in his head, reminding him of how long it had been since he had last entered the world of sweet bliss that the needle brought. Damn John, damn him to hell.

He took another breath, needing the comfort of the nicotine to consume him. He was not sure how much longer he would be able to last on pipe smoke alone…

John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 23 minutes, and 12 seconds.

He had been sober for 6 months, 34 hours, 1 minute and 30…31…32…33…

* * *


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter on the point of view will switch between Sherlock and John.

Tea. That's what he needed. A good strong cup of tea.

Or maybe something stronger than tea.

It had been just over three days. Three days since he left 221B Baker Street.

Three days since he had abandoned Holmes…

He felt bloody terrible about how he had quite literally left in the middle of the night, taking only his cane and his dog with him. Of course he had realized that Sherlock had followed him to Mary's place that first night. Of course he knew that, he had expected him to follow. It did nothing to help the dull ache in his chest about running like a scared dog with his tail between his legs.

Gladstone did not seem to mind being away from Baker Street.

A sigh left his lips as he bent down, putting the leash on his loyal pet's collar. He did nothing but walk and go to work. That was it. It was all he could really handle at that point in time. The events of that night were still fresh in his mind and he was afraid if he spoke aloud to anyone of what happened something bad would happen.

Something bad always happened.

Mary could tell that something was wrong with him; John was not exactly good at hiding it. She fussed, she worried, but John would not talk to her. The only one he felt like he could talk to was Gladstone. Animals always were easier to listen to. They didn't talk back, they didn't say anything bad, they didn't try and help. They would just sit there and want to be loved.

"Come on boy," he muttered under a hushed breath before he walked out of the flat and onto the cobble stone streets. It was as if the world was still waking up, mist dampened the air, leaving the world in a hazy fog. It did nothing to help his mood. But John just walked, Gladstone walking right at his heel.

Few people were on the streets, the shops just starting to open up for the day. The city was not yet awake, and John was glad for that. If more people were out he'd be completely suspicious that Holmes was following him. Though Gladstone would probably alert him to that, after all the dog knew the man's scent and had the tendency to run far away from it.

Out of pure habit he picked up a newspaper, before heading towards the nearby park to find a place to sit. It wasn't hard, there wasn't anyone in the park and the second he found a bench he sat down, unfolding the paper. Gladstone seemed happy just to be sitting down.

There was not anything really interesting in the paper, just news of a robbery where there were absolutely no clues and if anyone had seen anything to contact Scotland Yard.

 _The kind of case Holmes would enjoy…_ he thought, eyes skimming the pages of the paper, not really finding anything to hold his attention for longer than a couple of seconds. His mind was consumed with only one thing, the damn genius Sherlock Holmes.

It shouldn't be that way. He should not be this worried about Sherlock Holmes. He was a grown man who could take care of himself, John did not have to be there to make sure that he was alive. Or…maybe he did. Holmes wasn't exactly like most men after all. He was unique.

 _He's special. One of a kind…_ His eyes were unfocused, a frown on his lips as he just stared at the paper in his lap. _Come off it John you cannot afford to think like this. It is not right. It is not right. You care about him as a friend. Holmes will move on and be fine._

But would he? Would Holmes be all right? The last time he had left for an extended period of time, Holmes had not slept in four days. Had he made a mistake by leaving?

John shook his head, regaining control of his wandering thoughts as he stood back up. He couldn't stay away from Holmes. Regardless of what happened, Holmes was still his best friend. But…going to see him at Baker Street would have to wait. John had to get back to Mary. He was to meet her parents and a part of him was fairly certain that that was something he should not be late to.

So he retraced his steps, walking back towards the flat where Mary lived, Gladstone trotting along beside him. His stomach was churning, he did not want to meet her parents in the least. There was no way that it would end well. None what so ever. In fact, he was fairly certain when they found out he was Sherlock Holmes's trusted partner they'd flat out refuse to let him be near their daughter.

He glanced down at Gladstone, the bulldog just staring back up at him with expectant eyes. "Let's get this over with old boy…"

* * *

"That wasn't so bad was it dear?" Mary said watching John from where she sat at the table.

John barely made out her voice; his gaze was fixed out the window, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg ached painfully, more than it had in a very long time.

"They liked you I do believe."

Great, her parents liked him, so suffering through reliving his life during the time he spent in the army was worth it. Least being a veteran counted for something with her parents…

"And they gave you their blessing."

Oh how he wanted her to shut up. Reminding him of that small detail also made him remember the fact that while he had received the blessing, there was a look of absolute disgust on Mary's father's face when John mentioned he worked with Sherlock Holmes along with being a doctor.

He had never wanted to show off his training as an army man on anyone so damn much.

It had just been a look but that was enough. It was a look of hate. Disapproval.

No one insulted Sherlock Holmes in front of him.

"Yes they did," he said, his voice strained. The dull throb had gotten stronger, seeming to stay with a vengeance. He could not stay there any longer. He had to move. He had to get out.

He was not sure his leg would last…

* * *


	3. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioning again that the point of view will switch between Sherlock and John. This chapter is Sherlock's, so the next one is from John's point of view.

John had not been home for 5 days, 6 hours, 23 minutes and 30 seconds.

Sherlock sat on the windowsill; his head resting against the frame, one leg propped up, the other dangling down, toes just barely hitting the floor. His hands rest on his knee, eyes unfocused as he gazed out to the foggy world beyond the protective barrier of the window. The world beyond seemed like something out of a valuable painting, figures and skyline blurry, buildings looked almost like they had been painted into the surrounding.

From his vantage point he could almost see the park where he and John had first met; the park where the military families and their servicemen would gather before they were deployed into action. An event that he had been dragged to as a child by his older brother. That had been the first time they had met.

The very first time. Not the time that everyone else remembered.

Had it been then that Sherlock had realized just how close they would become? No, it wouldn't have been then. However…it was possible. He had noticed everything about John Watson, from his expression, to the life that lit up his eyes. He could remember it as if they had just met yesterday…

John had not been home for 5 days, 6 hours, 26 minutes, and 5 seconds.

* * *

The military men were gathered at the park, mingling throughout the gardens and lush greenery of Hyde Park. Their families and friends were there. It was the day before they were to ship off for the war. Everyone seemed like they were happy.

It was a lie. They were all miserable. Sherlock could tell, could see through the smiles and the laughter; they were scared and upset but refused to show it. He hated these sorts of gatherings, but his brother insisted that he was too young to be left alone. Secretly, Sherlock was fairly certain that it was more like Mycroft did not trust him enough to leave him back at their family's home alone.

So there he was, standing off to the side in his best dress clothes, observing the crowds. It was amusing to watch the girls in their fancy dresses hanging off the arms of the impeccably dressed military boys each one in their full uniforms. There was just something that seemed so false about the entire seem. Who in their right mind would be that happy knowing that their loved ones were about to be shipped off and probably killed during the fight to defend their homeland?

It was bloody insane…

Sherlock tugged his hat lower on his brow, not really feeling like engaging in conversation with anyone, or seeing his brother partake in the rituals of greeting each and every person in military dress so formally.

"Do you find this as incredibly boring as I do then?" A voice, a stranger.

His eyes turned to the side to see one of those military boys standing beside him, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy pants. Dark hair sat upon his head, green eyes stared at him inquisitively, questioning.

Curious…

"Why do you think that?" Sherlock asked his eyes returning to staring at his feet.

"Well…" The stranger started, shifting his position judging from the sudden sound of rustling that came from him. "You're standing off to the side, not looking at anyone or any thing. And you're not smiling."

That made a small smile appear on his face.

"So then why are you here? You're not part of the military, and I doubt you'd be standing here alone if your brother or father were leaving tomorrow. Must be you're the family member of one of the officials."

Sherlock, in that moment decided he liked the stranger and turned to look at him. The young man was grinning, a smile that seemed to light up his entire face. "I'm right aren't I? So. Which is yours?"

He nodded towards Mycroft. "He is."

"You're too old to be his son. And he looks too young to be your uncle, unless there's some interesting family history there. Means he must be your brother."

Correction, he really liked this person. He was able to figure out everything (or close enough for him) without asking a single question.

He held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson." John grasped his hand for a moment and the two stared into each other's eyes, silent, letting the world move around them.

"It is a pleasure to meet you John." Sherlock was doing his best to abide by the society's norms for how to greet someone, though he was finding it incredibly difficult, it was not something he was exactly used to.

John nodded, letting his hand fall back to his side. "Likewise Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mr. Holmes is my brother. Call me Sherlock, or Holmes. No need for such formality here."

In a flash, his hat was on John's head, the other male's fingers running along the brim of it. "Then there won't be formalities then. We are just two people talking, getting to know each other better wouldn't you say?" John pulled the hat low enough so that he was only looking at Sherlock with one of his eyes, the grin back on his face. "After all I am just a poor boy about to leave home for places unknown."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile yet again, shaking his head, causing his dark hair to get even messier than it had been. "Of course, but you're not afraid of leaving home are you?" No response, and the smile faded from John's face. That had been the wrong thing to say. What would a normal person do in this situation?

Hesitantly he placed a hand on John's arm, his head tilted to the side. "It is all right to be afraid John… It will help keep you safe. If you were not afraid, I'd be worried since it would mean you have nothing keeping you from not being careless. You'd be killed. Fear will keep you safe keep you smart. It is you friend."

He watched John's eyes move from the ground, to his hand, and finally to meet his gaze. "You speak like a professor at a university Sherlock. How is it you know so much? That you can speak so wise?"

"I read."

"Of course…" John sighed, letting his hand rest on top of Sherlock's. "I am afraid. I'm afraid I won't come home, and that if I do come home, I won't recognize it. I'm afraid that war will change me…I may just be a doctor, but it is still fighting and killing. There's no way I won't come back different. What if there is nothing for me to come home for Sherlock?"

"I'll help you."

"What?"

He moved his hand to hold John's in his own and gave a warm squeeze, hoping that John would perceive it as comforting. "When you return from the war. If you have nowhere to go, I will find you. I would like to take you home. Give you something to return to."

John didn't pull his hand away, seeming to like the comfort, the knowledge that there was someone there who understood. "I'll hold you too that Holmes."

"I'd expect nothing less."

"Sherlock ah there you are!"

Sherlock jerked his hand away from John, his eyes turning to glare in his brother's direction. He had finally started to enjoy himself and then of course Mycroft had to come and ruin everything. "Yes brother?" he asked halfheartedly.

"It is time to go-" Mycroft stopped. "Who is this?"

"Doctor John Watson," John said extending his hand to Mycroft, who didn't shake it. "Your brother and I were just talking."

"You were?" There was a look of shock on Mycroft's face as he glanced between the two of them. "Sherly was actually talking to you? Being civil?"

"The perfect gentleman."

"Really? Fascinating. Yes anyways, Sherlock we must be heading home. Do say goodbye to your friend and meet me by the carriage."

Sherlock simply nodded and watched his brother bid goodbye to John before walking off. "My brother," Sherlock muttered under his breath, looking at John.

"Guess this is goodbye then…" There was a tone of sadness that Sherlock caught instantly in John's voice.

He shook his head, letting his hand rest on John's shoulder, brushing his lips against his cheek as he had seen so many others do in the past to say goodbye. "This isn't goodbye John. This is just the beginning." He said in a soft voice, his breath ghosting against John's cheek. He pulled back enough to look into those stunning eyes of his. "Stay safe John." He stepped away a small smile on his face. "I plan to keep my word to you. I'll find you when you return."

"I look forward to it," John replied, and then stiffened, his body straight as he brought his hand up and saluted him. "Good luck then Sherlock Holmes. Gods be good I shall see you soon."

Sherlock returned the gesture. "You shall John Watson. We will meet again."

* * *

John had not been home for 5 days, 6 hours, 56 minutes, and 57 seconds.

How long had he been sitting there lost in the past?

His eyes were closed, forehead pressed against the cool glass. His heart was beginning to ache again. All he wanted was for John to think back and remember that moment in time when they had first met. It was something so simple, but their bond had been formed in that instant. Sherlock knew it had been, did John not remember?

He had found John, had taken him in after the war. Did John really not remember that night? He hoped he would…He hoped that John would just remember everything; realize that he belonged with Sherlock, not some other girl.

"My dear John…are you lonely? Do you remember that this is your home? Not the place you are at with her?" He whispered, fingers sliding against the glass. "I would like to bring you home my English boy…"

John had not been home for 5 days, 6 hours, 59 minutes, and 45 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flash back was my own creation. I have no idea if that is how they actually met or not, but that's how I decided to have them meet for the first time.


	4. John

John could remember that moment in the park, the moment he had met the man who would forever change his life. He clung to the memory as one of his most precious. He would not admit it to Holmes, but he would never forget that night. It, if anything, had kept him sane in the war when nothing else would. Would Holmes find it odd of him, that he held on to something as trivial as a memory? Perhaps, there was always a chance of that, though he supposed that it no longer mattered. He was certain that his long time friend now despised him, would sooner kill him in some new experiment than welcome him back with open arms.

Or maybe he would, one could never predict what Sherlock Holmes would or wouldn't do.

The man was an enigma.

Holmes was someone he could not forget, someone he would never forget even if he tried.

It was probably that fact that caused him to stay away from Mary for longer periods of time than he had been. He would leave before she would wake up and return right at the start of dinner, and then he'd retreat to the room she let him use as an office and stay there till she was asleep. She knew something was wrong, and John just did not feel like telling her what (or who) exactly was the cause of his unease.

How could he tell her that his best friend who just happened to be male had confessed his love for him and kissed him?

How could he tell her that this was the second time his best friend had kissed him?

The answer was simple. He couldn't. He would never tell her that it had happened. He was not in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was not some fruit or pervert. He was not gay.

Then why could he not get the damn man out of his mind? Every single thought throughout the entire day was consumed with thoughts of Holmes. His eyes, his voice, his smile, and his laugh. He could not get him out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. But they were best friends, nothing more than that. Surely Holmes would get over the rejection and realize that they were better off as friends. Wouldn't he?

What would happen if he never realized that?

John would lose his best friend that was what would happen. John didn't want that.

There was only one solution and that made his stomach churn. He had to go talk to Holmes, had to get him to see why they could not work, why he could not return his love. That was going to be a wonderful conversation with the detective. The man already acted like a small child, John was probably about to walk into a situation where Holmes would act like a child who had just been told he could not have a toy. If there was anything John was certain of that would happen, Holmes would have a fit.

Or maybe he wouldn't…he was a grown man.

He needed a drink.

"I'm going out," he finally spoke aloud, staring at his uneaten dinner that Mary had made.

"You've hardly eaten," she replied as John stood up, grasping the top of his cane tightly, needing the support. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes of course, I just need some air." He probably should have been concerned about how easy it was for him to lie to her, but he wasn't. "I'll be back soon dear." There that's it he had to act the part of her fiancé. So with a quick peck to the top of her head, he left the flat.

The cool air nipped at his skin, his cane clicking on the stones beneath his feet. His mind wandering as his steps led him towards some unknown destination. It did not bother him that he had absolutely no clue where he was going. There was no one about, no sounds reached his ears other than those of his own feet and cane.

No. He wasn't alone.

The familiar tingle went up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was absolute silence around him.

Someone was following him.

Each of his senses were on high alert, adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins, preparing his body for a fight. With each passing moment he grew more cautious, his fingers tightening around his cane, shifting into the proper position. His body shook, trying hard to remain in control of his mind, telling himself that this was not the war, that he was in London, not on the front lines.

The sound of footsteps, running, and then the man was behind him.

He whipped around, grasping the base of his cane in one hand, drawing the sword free with the other, just in time to see the glint from the attacker's weapon. Short blade, but still extremely deadly. The sickening clang as their weapons collided rang throughout the silent streets.

His heart was pounding; the other person was strong, and a good deal larger. He had to fend of one attack right after the other, the strength of each blow driving him back, further and further, closer to the wall behind him. He wrapped his free hand around the blade of his sword, using to deflect the vicious strikes with the knife.

It wasn't enough.

With his free hand the man shoved him, hard against the wall. His head hit the wall with a sickening crack. Stars blurred his vision; he could barely see well enough to know where his attacker was.

The grip on his sword had loosened, blood dripped from his palm, he couldn't make out the stranger's face, nothing identifiable. He felt the smooth wood of the handle fall from his fingers, clanging as it hit the cobblestones.

"Got a message for Mr. Holmes."

A bang.

Pain shot through his entire side, blinding, white hot.

The scent of blood, and he was back on the front lines.

* * *

_Gunfire. Shouts. Cries of pain. Screams of agony. The blast of light from the end of the canon. He couldn't work fast enough. There was too many of them. Too many injured._

_He had to save them. He could not let them die. Not all of them. He had to save one of them, just one and he would be able to rest._

_Crawling, he had crawled, been crawling across the battle ground away from the wreckage of the medical tent towards the nearest injured person. The soldier had shrapnel sticking out from his gut, bad, a wound that should be fatal but…_

_John had to work fast. "Damn it stay with me…" He cursed, hands covered in blood as he worked to try and save the boy soldier, not much older than himself, from certain death. But nothing was working the blood kept coming._

" _Doctor! Doctor Watson! Oh thank heavens you are alive."_

_Another soldier, a person to be ignored. He had to focus. He had to save this boy._

" _I won't leave him," he snapped as the other soldier helped him to stand up, away from the injured boy. "He is my patient."_

" _He is already dead." John stared into the mud covered face of soldier who was keeping him standing. "There is nothing you can do."_

_No…there had to be something. John made a move to go back towards the fallen comrade only to have the soldier try and stop him again._

" _Sir, please you're injured."_

_John turned and looked at the man and the awareness came back to him. The canon…gunfire…enemy soldiers…_

_The throbbing pain from his leg, the warm blood running down his skin. He reached out a blood stained hand to the soldier, who managed to catch him just as his leg gave out, sending John to the ground._

* * *

Another bang. A thud. Then silence.

His vision was slowly coming back to him, swirling in and out of focus.

"John."

That voice. He knew it.

"John. Don't. No you have to stay awake John."

Sherlock. It was Sherlock. He tried to speak, but there was no strength left.

"Stay with me John…"

The pleading voice again. It was all John could do to stay awake.

"Damn it hold on."

He was aware of being moved, someone carrying him. His blurry gaze traveled up to look into the face of Sherlock Holmes. The last thing he saw was his face before he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I did just shoot John. Read on to find out what happens.


	5. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is drug use in this chapter. If you do not approve of this, don't read despite the fact that it is a part of who Sherlock Holmes is. That's my only advice.

John had not been home for 5 days, 23 hours, 2 minutes and 1 second.

Sherlock could not remember why he was even out that late, what had possessed him to aimlessly roam the streets of London while the stars danced above him. It was quiet, very quiet, and he hated every single aspect of the silence. There was nothing about it helped him to distract his mind from the wandering thoughts consuming his mind. Thoughts of that doctor, of that stupid doctor that had abandoned him.

He shoved his hands further down into his pockets eyes fixed on the ground, trying desperately to focus on the sounds of his footsteps. Click, clack, click, clack. One step after the other. One, two, one, two, left, right, left, right. He was going to go insane, he was certain of that.

John had not been home for 5 days, 23 hours, 3 mi- A clang, grunts, sounds of fighting.

Finally something interesting. His mind was focused on one thing, the fight. It had to be close if he could hear it…

He was running, heading for the sound of the noise. Just as he rounded the corner, he could see them, the two shadowy figures. He was so close.

And then he recognized the figure pinned to the wall.

The glint of a barrel of a gun, pointed at him.

"Got a message for Sherlock Holmes."

He had to get closer, had to stop it he just ha- _BANG!_

The shot rang out through the night, echoing off of every surface it touched. Sherlock's mind went completely blank, his eyes staring as John slid to the ground, blood starting to trickle from a wound to his abdomen.

John. His John. Hurt. Shot. That man's fault.

His eyes fell on the attacker and everything seemed to slow.

_First._

His mind wasn't working.

_First._

He didn't have time. The man was in front of him.

_Knock him back, kick to the groin. Disarm. Retaliate._

It's what he should have done. What he should have. Just disabled him. But…

In a split second his pistol was in his hand, barrel pointed to the man's head. "Bang." The gun went off, putting a bullet directly between his eyes.

All was silent again. The streets still. The police would be coming… There was no time to deal with Lestrade and his complete incompetence.

He was by his friend's side in an instant, searching his face, fingers pressed to the side of his neck as he had seen John do so many times. He was alive. "John," he said loud enough that he hoped John would be able to hear him.

Movement, if just so. It was good enough for him. His gaze turned to the wound, blood still seeming from beneath his clothes. The slight movement went away. "John. Don't. No you have to stay awake John." Sherlock was starting to get rather frantic, he was no doctor.

He ripped fabric from his shirt, pressing it to the wound, securing it tightly in place with his belt. "Stay with me John…"

He had to move him. They couldn't stay here. He could hear the police coming.

He had no choice, he gathered John up in his arms, his friend's head resting against his shoulder. "Damn it hold on."

He was off again, running. If he could just make it back to Baker Street…

* * *

"He should be in a hospital."

"Mr. Holmes insists that he'd be safer here."

"Yes, but the wound is quite serious."

"Holmes should not have a say in where he goes, he's my fiancé."

"Clearly you underestimate him."

Sherlock sat at the top of the staircase listening to the conversation coming from the downstairs where the doctor he had called, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and, to his disgust, Mary were talking. No one seemed to like that he had brought John back to 221B Baker Street, no one seemed to understand that he was simply trying to keep his companion safe.

John was home.

"John's not in danger! Holmes was the target! I want him taken to a hospital."

"I believe Miss Morstan is correct…"

Someone had been after him. Someone had been after him and knew enough about to him to understand whom his one weakness was. They knew how to get to him, they knew how to break him. He wondered if they knew about their dead assassin…

"Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant man I have ever known. If he thinks John is safer here then we should listen to him." A pause. "Lestrade surely you understand."

Silence.

"Mrs. Hudson is right. John is safer here with Holmes than anywhere else. Miss I understand your concern but no one would be stupid enough to try to attack Sherlock Holmes in his own house."

"I don't care. John's not safe with him."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He did not want to hear anymore of what they were saying. The stairs creaked as he stood back up and retreated to his room where John Watson lay in his bed.

The door to the bedroom was open, and he gazed into it, leaning against the fireplace. In there, his friend, the one who completely consumed his thoughts lay on the brink of death and it was all his fault.

John was hurt because of him.

Nearly dead because of him.

All his fault.

His fault…

He forced himself to pry his eyes away from the doorway, across the floor of his death trap of a room, right onto the mantel of the fireplace. It was still there. The little black case. His friend…the one who had never left him and had always been there.

He had been sober for 6 months, 6 days, 12 hours, 1 minute and 34…35…

The case was in his hand, his eyes fixed on it as he sank back into his chair by the fireplace. He had to get away, get his mind off everything. He opened the case, the syringe staring back at him from its place on the black velvet, the little bottle of liquid beside it. Half water, half powder.

Away…an escape…something to get his mind working again…

He rolled up his sleeve, and tied a strap of leather around his upper arm.

John would disapprove. _But it's my fault…it's my fault that he's laying there…_

He shook the little bottle, till it turned milky white. His own mixture…a seven percent solution. He pressed the tip of the needle into the bottle, pulling the plunger up, drawing the solution into its chamber. He flicked it, made sure there was no air bubbles before he pulled it free.

The needle sparkled in the light of the fire in an almost inviting way. Almost. His hand was shaking violent as he looked down at his bare arm. Marks, pinpricks littered his skin from where he had injected himself in the past before John had managed to get him to stop.

John. It was his fault he had been shot. It was his fault that he was laying there…nearly dead…

_All my fault._

" _Got a message for Sherlock Holmes"_

The needle sank smoothly into his skin, the plunger went down, and the familiar ringing filled his ears.

He had been sober for 6 months, 6 days, 12 hours, and 7 minutes.


	6. John

" _A message for Sherlock Holmes."_

_The gunshot. The pain. And Sherlock._

_Sherlock had been there. Been there so fast…the sound of the gunshot. Sherlock standing over him, a gun in his hand, smoke rising from the muzzle. A dead look in his eyes, the small spark of worry the sparked seeing his friend lying there._

" _Damn it hold on."_

His eyes snapped open, his breath coming in hard fast breaths. He could remember the sound of the gun, the pain, and the sound of Sherlock's voice. Then there was nothing, nothing but darkness. But it didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. There was no way Sherlock would have shot him; he was Sherlock's only friend. And, from his past experience, you don't kill your friends.

Had he really been asleep for that long? It only felt like a few moments... But as his tired eyes gazed around the room he was in a frown formed on his lips, he wasn't in a hospital. Why on earth was he in Sherlock's bedroom? And more importantly why was there a cat staring at him from the foot of his bed?

With a strained groan, the doctor pushed himself up into a sitting position, instantly regretting the decision as pain radiated from his side. A part of him hoped that if Holmes had insisted he stay in the flat he would have at least gotten a proper doctor to piece him back together. Surely Holmes wasn't that mental to think he could stitch a gunshot wound back together…

"You're awake."

His eyes snapped to the foot of the bed where the detective was standing, a blank look on his face. No twinge of happiness at his survival, nothing. Not even a flicker of a smile. "You're looking…well…" John said, a complete and utter lie. Holmes looked as if he had not been sleeping or eating. Again.

"I should be the one saying that to you old friend." John watched as he ran his fingers over the coat of the cat. "I am surprised you woke up so soon."

"How long has it been?"

"A couple of days."

"Have I been here the whole time?"

"You have."

There was something off about him. The way he was talking, the way he was refusing to meet his gaze, even the way he held himself. Something was off, something had happened. There were a million questions running through his mind, his first priority being what was wrong with Holmes, and yet… "Why am I here Holmes? Why am I not in a hospital?" Of all the things he could have said, he said that.

"Do you remember being shot?" John nodded. "You were attacked because of me. If you were in a hospital you'd simply have the incompetent members of Scotland Yard watching you. Personally, for the sake of catching the man responsible and keeping you safe." Of course his safety was a second priority, it always was. "I figured it would be in everyone's best interest if you stayed here."

"And Mary?"

"Has been allowed to visit you every so often. But I can't have her coming and going at all hours if your location is to be kept a secret."

John looked at his friend then shook his head going back to resting against his pillows causing the cat to hiss. "Foul beast…" John muttered, preferring the company of dogs to that of cats. The creature stared at him with amber eyes, a growl rumbling in its throat. "Holmes why is this cat here?"

"Cat's a witness in a case."

"No, really why is the cat here?" No response. "You're serious?"

"Yes there was a robbery and poor Orion here was the only one left alive. I fear that this cat holds the secrets to the murder of his owners." The cat purred under Holmes's touch.

"You're serious?"

"If I had not taken him they would have set him loose on the streets or had him killed. The poor thing. Such intelligent creatures, don't you agree Watson?" Holmes looked at him, his eyes sparkling in the way they normally did when Holmes had figured out a clue to some great mystery. Normally John would have been thrilled to see that look. Now he just thought Sherlock mental.

He didn't even acknowledge that question, refused to look at his friend. There was something up, and all he needed was for Holmes to leave so he could have a look around. Assuming of course that he could actually stand on his own.

"Ah John you're finally awake." He looked up as Mrs. Hudson entered the room, a tray with tea on it in her hands, and Gladstone waddling in after her. "Sherlock."

"Nanny."

Mrs. Hudson set the tray down on the table beside his bed. "I do hope you are not bothering him. He needs his rest."

"I'm not bothering him Nanny, but perhaps he could do without your-" John gave Holmes a look that, for once, shut him up. "I'll be back later then." The detective left the room, the orange tabby cat following him out.

"Mrs. Hudson, what on earth happened?" John asked his voice laced with concern. "He's not acting like himself. Or he is, but different. Less emotional."

"Oh dearie, I don't know," she said, pouring him a cup of tea. "He has not been eating or sleeping normally, but he never did to begin with. So hard to tell with him." That confirmed his first suspicion about his friend's appearance. She helped him to sit back up, making sure he was comfortable before giving him the cup of tea. "I do know, that I have never seen him more distraught than when he showed up here with you in his arms."

That should not have surprised him as much as it did, Holmes blatantly showing emotion was not something he did often. "He's never been one to show that much emotion Mrs. Hudson."

"But you are his only friend."

_His only friend…Holmes wouldn't hurt me. I'm his only friend._

"Can you keep an eye on him Mrs. Hudson? Till I am able to move better?" There was concern in his voice. He honestly was worried about Sherlock, and there was no way that he was going to let how he was acting slide.

"Of course Dr. Watson," she replied, leaving the tray on the bedside table. "I shall bring up your dinner once it is ready."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

"You're welcome."

By the time she had left the room, any thought of trying to get up to explore and poke around to see if there was any clue as to his friend's strange behavior had vanished from John's mind. His side ached something terrible, something he had not felt since he had left for the war. And there wasn't much he could do in the room besides sip his tea and ponder what on earth could have happened to make the very subtle change in Sherlock's personality. His mind began to wander as he ran his fingers over Gladstone's soft fur.

The amount of concern he was feeling for his old friend was surprising, shocking to John. He had other friends, other people he could go and talk to. So why was it the thought of something being wrong with Sherlock made his stomach churn and his heart pound in his chest? Could it be that while he was friends with those other people, there was not one of them he truly trusted in the way he trusted Sherlock Holmes? None of them really knew what he went through after he returned from the war. None of them, not even his army buddies, only Sherlock did.

They weren't his friends they were acquaintances.

"He's my only friend…" The words were lost to the silence of the room; no one was around to hear the confession. "Sherlock Holmes is my only friend…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat has relevance. Which will be revealed in good time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Got busy with college.

She was in there with John again. Second time that day that she was in there with his John. Oh how he despised having to let that she-witch near what was his. Something wasn't right with her. He couldn't put his finger on it. But there was something seriously wrong with sweet little Miss Mary. Something that clearly only he could see.

He watched them from his dark little corner of the room, the orange cat Orion curled up on his lap, lazily purring. The doctor talked about how much of a remarkable recovery John was making, how he should be able to go home in a few days. It made Sherlock's stomach churn. He did not want John to go home. He did not want him to go home to her.

"Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock was watching her every move trying to figure out what exactly it was that made him hate her so much, besides the obvious fact that she was stealing his John.

"Mr. Holmes."

There was something hiding just below the surface, something he could not quite…

"Mr. Holmes."

"What?" He snapped forcing his gaze to the doctor standing in front of him. "What is so important that you must disturb my peaceful state of being? A doctor of your standing should know better than to interrupt someone who is relaxing." Or trying to figure out the identity, the real identity of Miss Mary.

"I am afraid I must ask you to leave. You are giving the lady quite a fright with your constant staring."

He stared at the doctor, glanced to Mary then back again. He stayed put. "I'd rather kiss the dog than leave. This is my home good doctor. You cannot force me to leave any room in this home."

"This is John's room Mr. Holmes," the sweet lady answered and Sherlock half wondered if it was appropriate to use Orion as a weapon against her.

"You are mistaken Mary. John moved out. This is my room and you cannot make me leave his side."

"You are not his fiancé."

"I can keep him safe, better than you certainly can unless you intend to woo his attackers with your…womanly wiles."

"You are not his friend!" The room went silent. Sherlock stared at her, and looked to John who could not seem to look at him. "You are nothing to him. Don't you get it? He stayed with you out of pity for your mental sanity. You Mr. Holmes, are a lunatic, a stark raving mad lunatic."

"Get out." The words fell off his lips as he stood up, sending Orion to the floor with an ungrateful his.

"What did you say?"

"Get out of my home."

"Sherlock…" John finally spoke, using his first name, something few rarely did.

The gun went off and there was silence again. All eyes were on him and the gun in his hand, smoke swirling from the muzzle, a new hole in the ceiling. "I said get out of my house before I make you get out. All of you. Out." No one moved. "Now!"

Sherlock Holmes stood at the top of the stairs, watching as the doctor, Mary, and John worked on getting out of 221B Baker Street. His hand gripped the railing on the stairs, staring down at them. He met John's gaze for a fraction of a second before the man looked away. He was disgusted, disgusted with himself for thinking that the great John Watson actually cared about him. It was pity. Mary had said so and since she did seem to actually know John better…

It was pity that had kept John there.

It was pity and nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

John felt sick, his stomach throbbed from more than just the gunshot wound. It was still sinking in, the utter shock of what had just happened still enveloped his entire being. It was nothing like he had ever felt before.

John Watson felt numb.

The world around him would have been warm, comfortable for an average man, but John did not feel a thing of it. Not the soft bed beneath him, nor the warmth from the fire. He felt none of it, he felt nothing. Nothing, but cold, empty and lost. How had it all happened? How had everything gone so wrong?

"John? Is there anything I can get for you?" Mary asked sitting on the edge of the bed. When on earth had she appeared? There was a look of concern, of love in her eyes. It was for him, the concern and love, all for him. Nothing phased him, he could not even bring himself to smile. "Do you feel ill?"

"Mary I'm fine." Lie. "I'm just tired, that's all." A lie. "All I need is rest." A bottle of scotch and a pack of cards perhaps… "Don't worry about me." Another lie, he was fairly certain she should worry.

"Are you sure?" She was worried, the tone resonated in her voice; it made him feel sick again.

"I'm sure." Something was missing he was not all right. There was a gaping hole in his heart. Something was missing that had been there and was now gone.

"If you need-"

"Mary please just leave." He was short with her, she looked hurt, but it did not affect him at all. He felt nothing. She left and he was alone again. Completely and utterly alone.

Tears stung at his eyes, and he tried to convince himself it was because of moving back to Mary's flat after leaving…leaving… Oh who was he kidding, he knew why he was crying, he knew why there was a feeling of loss, the horrible feeling of loneliness. He had lost the one person he had cared about more than he should.

Sherlock was gone. Sherlock hated him, wanted him out of his life. The quirky, unique, brilliant, and psychotic man he had spent so much time with had kicked him to the curb, tossed him out like he was garbage.

Sherlock who had done so much for him, had taken him in after he was injured in battle…He had had such a look of hate and heartbreak in his eyes…

_God Sherlock…it's not true… I didn't stay with you out of pity…You're one of the most important people in my life. Why would you believe her?_

He turned his gaze to the darkened window and stared out into the black night. No stars. No moon. Nothing but darkness. It felt like a part of himself was missing. And a part of it was. Sherlock wasn't there. The man who kept saving his life wanted nothing to do with him.

Sherlock Holmes was the only reason he was still alive.

* * *

His hands were trembling. A doctor's hands shouldn't be trembling. They had to be steady, able to do the delicate procedures that would save a man's life. He was nothing, broken. Defeated. A murderer. He had let people die. He had killed them. He was nothing. There was nothing for him.

He leaned heavily on the crutches they had provided for him. He had been found unfit for duty and they had sent him back to England. Two years of service and a stray piece of shrapnel had ended that career.

His eyes were on the ground, the dock beneath his feet damp with seawater, his leg throbbing painfully with each step.

"Doctor Watson I presume?" A voice. A voice that sounded so very familiar. John looked up and stared in disbelief.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock Holmes grinned, standing there directly in front of him. "I told you I would find you…"

It was to much. John took one step forward and fell against the other man. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him as tears began to fall down John's cheeks. He was in so much pain, emotional and physical. The scars were deep.

"It's all right. Come now follow me."

John let himself be led away, leaning against the other man for support. He didn't know nor care where he was being taken, so long as the one familiar thing the one familiar face stayed there.

* * *

If John had had the energy, he would have confronted Mary right then and there before going to talk to his dear friend. But the wound in his stomach was still throbbing from the bloody carriage ride. Not only that, he had a bad feeling that Sherlock would respond violently if he showed up. After all he had drew a gun on him.

It would take time, but John would apologize. With or without Mary's knowledge. He couldn't lose Sherlock, he just couldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I plan to update this fic and others once a week. Hopefully this is a feat I will be able to handle. Anyways I hope you like this chapter!


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